


'Were it not that I dream...'

by Ithiliana



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithiliana/pseuds/Ithiliana





	'Were it not that I dream...'

Faramir hesitated outside the discreet doorway for some time, making sure his hood was pulled far down over his face. He had never visited such a place before. He had never thought he would. 

But his world the last few days had become an unfamiliar place. The dream had come first, dragging him from sleep, the horror making him cry out so loudly that Boromir had heard across the passage and come to his door to ask what was wrong. Some doom was near at hand, and the dream would not let him sleep, coming again and again. Even his brother had experienced it. And after that, Boromir had insisted they go to their father. 

Yet when they had gone to speak to their father, no, to the Lord Denethor, the following days were worse than the nights. He met with loremasters and scholars in turn, each dragging the dream from him, insisting upon retelling after retelling, dwelling upon every detail, until he felt he would never sleep again. Days were spent in dusty archives, in hours in Council in sunlit rooms, but the tension never changed. 

His body ached. His eyes burned. He told himself he should return to his room, try to sleep. But he knew that sleep would not come. Not in the City. 

Faramir had been serving as Captain in Ithilien and but for the dream would be back in the country he most loved. But he was kept here as the Steward and his Councilors argued over the dream, what it meant, what should be done. Faramir had tried to tell them what he thought, but he was ignored. He had thought if the dream meant anything, the fact that it had come to him meant he should do something. Seek out Imladris. Seek the answer to the riddle. But no one besides him seemed inclined to see it that way. Although Boromir had tried to argue for him the first day. Faramir had never seen their father speak to Boromir in such a fashion. After that, Boromir had spoken little. 

After a meeting today that had gone on past the daymeal as learned men proved at great length how little they knew of "Halflings," his father had told him that Boromir would be sent to seek the answer to the riddle. Faramir had nodded, saying nothing, and had left. He had stood outside the Citadel staring blindly at the dead Tree. This decision was wrong. He knew it was, to the depths of his being, but he also knew no one would listen to him. 

He stood in shadow, not sure of where he could go, knowing only he wished to leave the Citadel. One of the Commanders of the Citadel Guards, a man he had known before he had left for Ithilien, one who had trained him in earlier days, had seen him and spoken to him. 

When Faramir had confessed his exhaustion and inability to sleep, Berloth had drawn him aside, given him directions. The House. What services they offered. The price asked for such services was high enough to guarantee quality. And invisibility. No, not a brothel, Berloth had insisted when Faramir had reacted with disgust. A discreet place where men and women went, where they donned masks. Where one could drink, talk, listen to music, and, in company or alone, choose a companion for the night, or for longer. A haven of sorts. Where no one would speak of the Shadow, the War in the East, or what must be done to try to turn the tide. 

Faramir had thanked him, then left, hoping to sleep. Berloth had meant well, but Faramir did not think such a remedy was for him. Some hours later, unable to sleep, he had risen, dressed in nondescript clothing, and had left his room. Now he told himself he had to go in or return to a waking night. He could not continue to stand in the street like some thief. 

Many had entered earlier, as he had hesitated, but for now there was a lull. Faramir forced himself to take the first step toward the house. The door opened as he approached, and he was greeted by a slim figure wearing black and a mask. He could not tell whether the one who greeted him was a young man or a woman. He paid the price asked and handed over his cloak, receiving in turn a mask. He donned it, then turned to see a stranger in the mirror set for just such a purpose. A black tunic with no markings, grey leggings, and the mask which hid much of his face. 

Even such a small step away from his life caused him to relax. He followed another black-clad figure into the hall beyond the passage and entered into a new world. Accepting the goblet he was offered, he found a seat near the back wall from where he could watch. Soft hangings covered walls, woven scenes of woods and gardens, sky and water. A fire of some sweet-scented wood burned, the only light save for a few candles. Quiet talk from the masked figures sitting and standing around hushed when a harpist began to play, then sing, a lay of Beren and Luthien, of their love in the woods. 

As the music continued, Faramir found himself oddly at peace. Such a feeling was more than worth the price he had paid at the door. Some time later, unsure of how much time had passed, he drained the last of the sweet wine from the goblet. The harpist set aside her instrument and left the hall. Faramir saw that there were fewer present than when she had started. A pity they had missed the music. 

He stood, intending to drink another goblet of wine and then leave. He saw the table across the way and strolled to it. When he hesitated a moment, trying to decide which of the pitchers to pour from, a hand descended on his shoulder. Startled, Faramir looked up to see the stranger next to him offering him a goblet. The man was taller and broader in the shoulder than Faramir, wearing a black velvet tunic, black leggings, and a mask that hid both hair and the top half of his face. The dim light kept Faramir from even seeing the colour of the man's eyes. 

Surprised, Faramir found himself accepting the goblet. As he raised it to his lips, the man raised another, drank in unison with Faramir. Feeling an unspoken challenge, Faramir drained the goblet. After he set it down on the table, they stood a moment, Faramir tasting the sweet wine on his lips. 

Then the man set his goblet down as well, the ringing sound of the fired clay hitting the wood of the table sounding much louder than it should have. The man's hand on his shoulder slid down, gripping his arm, kneading. When the man gestured to one of the doors that led from the hall, Faramir nodded. Heat was spreading from his arm through his body. 

Excitement rising in him, Faramir let the man guide him across the hall, through the door. He felt a dizziness that could not be blamed on two goblets of wine, a swirl of energy that made him eager to see what would happen. For one night, he would step away from his role as Captain, as the Steward's son, take his own pleasure. For once. So he followed the man up the narrow stairs and watched him as he unlocked the door. The dim light in the hallway showed a small room with a large bed. Such a room had only one function, but that was enough for Faramir this night. 

The man stood back, gestured an invitation. Faramir took a breath, then walked into the room. Standing next to the bed, he watched the man enter, pull the door shut behind him, wrapping them both in darkness. The hands that found Faramir in the darkness were strong, skilled, as they undressed him, pulled the mask away from his face. Faramir relaxed, guided onto the bed by those hands, losing himself in the warmth of hands and lips and skin. 

His relaxation soon faded in the fire rising within, a fire that burned through muscles and bones, hardening his member. Faramir twisted in the strong arms, wrapping his arms around the muscular body in turn, thrusting up in growing excitement. The game became half love-making, half wrestling match, as they rolled across the large bed, legs tangling in linens, panting with exertion, as Faramir tugged in turn at clothes and mask. 

Finally, pinned, Faramir opened his mouth for a final kiss, tongue thrusting deep within, as a slick hand opened him, pressing in, penetrating him. The skillful fingers played him as the musician had played her harp, pulling golden notes from strings, running from top to bottom in a glissando of melody, rising to a climax. Faramir panted, needing more, and rolled over. Strong hands gripped his hips as blunt warmth sank deep within. Shuddering, Faramir thrust up in turn, bracing himself on his arms, and felt the strength above him respond. 

Pleasure rolled through him as hard thrusts jolted him, sweat-slick skin sliding across his, the pounding forcing cries from his throat as he sank down onto the bed. Heat flashed into flame inside, was drowned in darkness and dampness as he lay lax under the body which collapsed across his. 

For an uncounted time, Faramir lay, loose limbed and warm, feeling his heart and breathing slow. Slowly, warmth withdrew, and the man shifted from above him to lie by his side, an arm over Faramir's body. He thought he could lie there for hours, perhaps could sleep, but he did not know what rules this House set. 

Still, he was half asleep when he felt the movement as the man next to him sat up. The sound of flint and steel caused Faramir to turn his head. Through half-closed eyes, Faramir watched the spark grow to a candle flame. 

The man spoke as he turned back to Faramir. "I've paid for the night, so we. . "

The familiar voice jolted through Faramir, forcing him up, as he stared in shock at the face of his brother. In turn, Boromir's face paled, the green eyes narrowing as he looked at Faramir. 

The space between one heartbeat and the next seemed vast to Faramir as time slowed around him, reminiscent of the moment of his first battle which had seemed to fill a lifetime. That moment would be one he'd remember all his life, he remembered thinking. And now this candle-lit moment, lying in a bed of pleasure he had shared with his brother, would become another memory. A memory that would part the days of his past from whatever days remained in his future. Days in which he and his brother would face unknown enemies. 

Faramir never knew whether it was the sense of that unknown that made him act, or if it was simply a recognition of what they had shared. He only knew that when he held out his hand, Boromir took it, raised it to his face, and then let Faramir pull him back down onto the bed where, in the golden light of the candle, they began to make again that music which they had discovered in the dark, in a dream.


End file.
